january.smiling, closed eyes,we stumble into summergraves with marble lies.
saturday.cigarettes will killme; that is, if i do not do it myself, first.
to love is to bleed.seeing his scars make some part of me ache to digmine even deeper.
an ode to winter, to her.i.there's a mixof cheap cigarettes andJanuary coating my lips.ii.all the scar tissuecan't make upfor everything i've lost,and everything i will gain.iii.i have never met someonewho distracts memore than metal and pot, but i guessthat there's a first foreverything.
mid summer alley.you are locked awaybetween my eyelasheswhenever i blink,(you always had the softest skin, especially in the summer. there was this glow to you. you were competing with the sun, even when you were shielded by your own clouds.)just a glance awayif i could just keep my eyes open.(but baby i'm bleeding out, i can taste death on my lips. it almost smells of you. sweet and tangy, with something acidic under you tongue.)every secondi remember more of you,bits stashed awaybehind my teeth.i think about every breathyou ever took by me, everydamn one.(we always used to say that we saved each other. i once told you that i will always rescue you, but baby i'm so scared because how can i do that six feet under?)i think feathers started to landon your shoulders.light kisses you, lifts yourhair like i used todo. you are the sun, again,the space between the atmosphere and the stars and the mountains.
biting my nails is almost better.i have this habitof missing the peoplethat are still in my lifeand loving the oneswho i will never meet,and the placesi fear i will not go.
to myself.i'm happy,i tell myself when i get in my freezing car,almost running late forclass. i'll be okay,is what i whisper to myselfduring the middle of a test. nobodyknows all the answers, right?it gets better.that's what i'm going to saythe next timei see someone withscars.
.how to comfort someonewith an anxiety disorder: tell them to grow up.god knowsthat they only panic because they're just not old enoughto handle themselves. say that it's notthat bad.because, hey,since it's not bad for you,it can't be for them. that's just how it works,right?"calm down".this oneis my personal favorite.because the one thingthat i want to hearwhen i'm choking on my own sweatand heartis that i need to calm down.
red.these cigarettes will kill me, but only ifi don't do it first. (inhale, breathe, hold, exhale. then concentrate on the scenery. feel the smoke on your tongue and think about how you're killing yourself, when in reality, you're already dying.)we're all going todie, so what's oneday less? it seems like anhonest bargain to me,but then again, you should neverlisten to a word i say, because i ama class A fuck up (or so they say). see, i'm either too fator too skinny,much too heart wildfor any man too marry. ("who would want to marry a girl like you? you're too stubborn," my father says. i am fifteen with purple hair and fire on my cheeks and my heart coiling away from my sleeve. "fuck anyone who wants to take anything about you away," my mother tells me when i'm nearly 16, with sad eyes and a worn out expectation.)but i think i realize nowthat i don'tcare. for me i am good enough,good in general,an
carry on.i count milesby the cracks in the sidewalkthat i try to step on(old habits die hard)andby cigarette buts thrown like Hansel & Gretel's crumbs down main st;count them by how many times i think of youand how many timesi wish i hadn't (those numbers are neck and neck).someday not so far from nowi know that i'll wind up to bethe monster i always said i wouldn't,and i'll sit back, mind a million miles away because i just want to keep going.
.a scalpel fromwrist to elbow-you will not beliving under myskin anymore
love is not a number.he is 77.7 milesaway from me,and tomorrow isFriday the 13th.but i swearthat i can feel his pulsein my palmsand the sun shining through the snow.
train tickets are like 200 bucks.i loved her forthe miles between us,and i think i might always do so.she is printed in my mind,upside-downlike some halfbreed stoner dreamand i feel her colors likesun. rain. hurricane. leaves side vertically in my veins, the left side of a bicycle wheeling around my brainand she is a fucking drug, man.i think i'm gay.i'm not saying that just tosay it, either. i justwonder.why else would i write letters to hereven though she'll never read them,and why do i wonder how she looksright on the verge of sleep? i think about kissing hera lot. it's always her. she is my now. my then. my way bak when. but most of all, she is mywhy, and that is fucking fantastic.
/.there is no amount of smokethat can keep youout of my thoughts. to see youis to see stars, and i'm dizzy enoughwith the image of youright before dawn stuck in my head,but i want more.i have the instinctive needto run a finger down yourneck, to memorizehow you look when yousmile, just so that i canwrite about you,to make you realizehow spectacular you are.
.they told me love hurts;sixteen, torn and weighted, i wish i'd listened.
how to be a poet: the basics.kiss all the peopleyou know you shouldn't,solely for the reasonthat they look goodin stanzas. look at your scarslike mothers peer into cradles. then makemore; make yourself intoa symbol for infinity,or at least try,because it never works. patch yourself up. say, "darling, you're okay," while staring at yourself in the mirror with your hairdamp and your lipschapped (refer to stanza one). change. grow. it's what we like to read, isn't it?miss the people in your lifeuntil they leave,and then miss yourselfas well. screw everything up,and then write about itlike it had to happen.try to believe it, ignorethe voice in your head that hissesand groans in your sleep,behind your eyelids."baby, you're a fuck up,you know it know it know it".try to carve the hummingout of your bodyby exit way of your veins. be hospitalized. give in, give up,play along, stop writing. get better. but then you start writi
.here i am, six feet under andstill singing about coughing lighters andmidnight storms.
s. Midnight came like a storm. I watched it take him by the waist and drag him away, fingers clawing at his sheets and shivers climbing over his limbs-- fever dreams. Moans died out in the back of his throat. I sat still as a winter night on the foot of his bed and didn't wake him, because the only thing worse for him than being eclipsed in a nightmare was being awake for one. We all know that. People told me that there was no way that I could have seen the signs; no way to know what he was doing behind closed doors. But they didn't know that I did know. I saw the marks on his arms; not just the ones made by a needle, but the ones that ran horizontal for miles down not just his arms, and the ones I knew father made (another thing that I knew). I was there when he tried to dissect his wrist the first time, and I joined in with the echoes of 'oh my god I had no idea' and 'what a shame'. We used to sit by the fir
six steps to fixing youstep onecry. scream. bang your fists against the wallsthat keep you locked inside.kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupidand wrong and that you've never loved her.cry. scream. apologize via him to you.let your tears catch on your lashesuntil you can no longer see anything but your owndemise. taste the bitterness left inyour mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.step twobreak a mug. break two. kickthe pieces around the kitchen floor and cry some more.break a plate. break a cup. break a bowl.break a finger because nothing can take away thissort of pain. you are empty and yetyou are filled with so much anger.break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.step threeyou are okay, you tell them.you break three days later and you liein bed, unable to move.step fourstart picking up the pieces. clean up the messyou've made and he's left.use windex to polish off the dirt and
.i will notlove for fearof losingand if afondnessshould creepthrough likeivy, i'll cut itback
The art of self-destruction.I have spentmy whole life perfectingself-destruction,how to separate myinsides from theoutsides without ascar to show.My arms have beenweapons instead of shieldsand I have built no otherwalls to defend me.I grew up inthis house of fleshand instead of tendingto its needs I havebeen letting peopleset it on fire insteadof loving me.
What a terrible thingSometimes life is painful,not for a discernible reason.Not for a route to something betteror a perversive remedyfor a wound long forgotten.Sometimes we drown in it,in the not yet,the not quite,the not at all.Sometimes even our eyelashesare too heavy,and keeping our eyes open enoughto see the truth is asking too much,and other times?Other times the truth isthe bacteria binding in your bloodbeneath your skin- it's inside -and it knows how to feed off of you.It tugs,it wretches,it wriggles until at last -it lets its forceful pair of handsslip tenderly under your ribcageto compress -down,down on your lungsuntil they are flatand stick to themselves,and leave you gasping; oh, oh the truth. What a terrible thing!
we aren't well-written.i can envision time fluxing backwards:words snuffed, swallowing dreams,choking on the catatonic fear thatyou just might love someone a bitmore than you love me.maybe if i destroy those damnedstars, you won't have anythingelse to write about.
A Galaxy SighsShe exhales sky from her lungs.
my bones awashed on the shorejonah was a man made up ofsalt and stone and piecesof driftwood he found carved withhearts and letters of teenage boys'and girls' names. he wasmore than his chicken leg bones andsagging skin, and the neighborhoodkids thought he was theghost of ol' samson, but he was justninety-eight and pushing it.jonah was a man who likedto wear his mother's curtains as clothesand used moth-eaten tableclothsas blankets during the chilly nights.he had this kind of gleam in hisold, dull gray eyes. he thought he'dbuild himself a boat andset it on the ocean and maybe he wouldfind someone out there.jonah didn't quite know who he was, yet.the neighborhood wives thatbrought him home-cooked dishes in bigpans to eat always told himthat he was no longer sane.but jonah said that sometimessanity had less to do with the mind andmore to do with the people.and on a warm tuesday,he draped his mother's old tableclotharound his shoulders and bundled up in a curtain, left h
Friends?I've always wanted to be more than friendsbut I always fear that you won'tso i hide my feelings and watch crying inside whileyou kiss someone else and hold them tightall the while inside I'm dying.You'll never know my true feelings, but I'll always wish I knew yours.
just you.there's a sharp whisper in my earlisting all my imperfections, crooning.there's a scab on my heart thatwon't go away. it doesn't hurt, butthe scar will always remain.then there's you,telling me you love everything ihate about myself.and all i want to dois listen to just you.
i'm not a liar.i was told to stopburning bridges. just the same;i'd rather drive offof them.